


Wardrobe Malfunction

by WorseOmens



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: AZ Fell & Co, Angelic Possession, Aziraphale’s Bookshop, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, True Forms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-18 22:08:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22400602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WorseOmens/pseuds/WorseOmens
Summary: Aziraphale is just trying to relax one night, when he finds himself stuck in his shop (very, very literally). He calls Crowley for help.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 35
Kudos: 480
Collections: Break in Case of Emergency: Fluff and Love, Courts GO Re-Reads, Ineffable Delights to Sink Your Teeth Into





	Wardrobe Malfunction

Aziraphale hummed along to the tune playing from his gramophone, pottering back and forth through the shop. It was late, and the world outside his windows had fallen dark and quiet under a thick blanket of night. He'd always been a night owl. Never fond of sleeping, he'd taken to long nights watching the stars at the dawn of mankind (often forgetting that he was supposed to be watching the gate) and ever since then, all his best frivolous hobbies had been performed at night. No one was around to bother him then. He didn't even have to open the shop! What bliss. 

He poured himself some tea, and settled into his armchair. Tonight wasn't a wine sort of night. He usually reserved his stores of alcohol for evenings spent with Crowley these days, now he was visiting more often. Good wine was best taken with good company, he found. 

When his grandfather clock struck twelve, he looked up from his book. There was a faint smile on his lips. Somewhere between the idle crackle on the vinyl, the chime of the clock and the gentle whisper of cars outside, he'd found his own private paradise. He loved many things - he loved food, and Earth, and humans, and he'd always been fond of snakes, but this... this was special. He loved his shop. It was home; it felt safe in a way that only an earth-dwelling creature could understand, all swaddled in familiar smells, soft places and warm light to chase away the darkness where anything could be lurking. Aziraphale closed his book, keeping his page with his thumb, and rested his head back against the armchair softly. He took a deep, contended drag of the air. 

Slowly, he began to let his consciousness unfurl. It was like loosening the drawstring of a bag, the trappings of his human form relenting and wavering as his angelic essence began to spread its invisible tendrils out into the material world. His true form poked and investigated everything it found, inhabiting the material objects each in turn before leaping across the room to the next stack of books, the next quaint novelty mug, the next antique cushion... he couldn't help but do this, sometimes. The bookshop wasn't just his home at that moment; it _was_ him. He'd inhabited it, just as he inhabited his human-shaped corporation. He could feel every word printed in ink on his pages, just as clearly as he could feel a blemish on his human skin. The wind rushing through Soho chilled him and chipped a little more paint from his windowsills, like having a strand of hair tugged lightly from his head. The gramophone's tune was like a purring cat, curled up on his tummy. 

In his contented haze, Aziraphale had forgotten the mug of tea, which he'd left behind in the hand of his human body. Unbeknownst to the angel who inhabited the very walls, the cup began to slip. The further Aziraphale strayed from his body, the more lax his body's hand became. 

Aziraphale felt the crash. Splinters of porcelain scattered over his floorboards, feeling like thorns needling his skin, and his essence instinctively drew away from the source of the disturbance. It stung, the water burning, spreading, unpleasant. He realised an instant later that he'd only dropped his teacup. Berating himself softly, he reached back toward his body, only to find his essence rebound away from it. He paused. _How... odd,_ he thought. He tried again, and was rebuffed again. Suddenly, Aziraphale realised what had happened. He'd read about this in Heaven's Earth Orientation Pamphlets before. 

_Oh, bugger,_ he thought sharply. 

Crowley grumbled at the sound of the phone ringing. He'd never been an especially light sleeper, but that damned thing always seemed to be able to rouse him. He sat up, half-tugging his eye mask to uncover just one of his wide, lidless eyes. Only vaguely aware that it was midnight, he stumbled half-blind out of his bedroom until he could fumble the phone off the receiver. 

"Wot?" he grunted. There was a small crackle on the other end of the line, and a sharp pop. "Who's this?"

An ear-stabbing screech replied. He let out a cry of surprise, holding the phone away from his ear, now shocked into full wakefulness. "Bloody Heaven!" he shouted, cringing away from the receiver as it continued to spit an unintelligible mess of screaming, endless, piercing white noise. Come to think of it, he recognised that sound. The realisation made him cold from inside out, and he tentatively lifted the phone back to his ear once the cacophony had died down. "... Aziraphale?"

It abruptly resumed, and he flinched away. "Shut it!" he barked. It stopped. Pinching the bridge of his nose and leaning heavily on the table, he said: "Angel, this better be your idea of a prank. Very funny, calling me in the dead of night with your true voice. Can I go back to bed now?"

An insistent screech responded. It didn't take the shape of any words he recognised, but he felt like that was a firm _no_. 

"Right..." he sighed. "Please don't do that again. I'm coming over."

The Bentley rolled to a halt outside the shop, far more subdued than usual. Crowley all but fell out of the car, righting himself hurriedly before anyone noticed. Deciding that he'd played that off quite well (and it was far too close to 1 AM for anyone with a valuable opinion to be out anyway), he made for the door of the shop. Some part of his brain wondered why the door handle felt so warm, almost like someone's hand had just been resting on it, but didn't sustain the thought. 

He stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind him on his own. It did so, much softer than usual. He glanced back over his shoulder with a frown, instinctively picking up on this subtle change; he'd been skulking around here for over 200 years, and the slightest break in habit caught his attention.

"Hm. Soft-closing doors?" he pondered out loud, leaning back to run his fingers thoughtfully up and down the doorframe. There was an unexpected spark of static electricity, making him draw back. "That's new."

With a shrug, he stepped away from the doorframe and sauntered in-between the shelves, glancing up and down hoping to catch sight of a white coat. There had to be some reason for the call... Angels didn't tend to use their true voices for much, not on earth, and definitely not on the phone. The cables didn't take well to the celestial noise. Aziraphale had to have known, surely, that whatever message he was trying to convey wouldn't get to him over the phone. He called out his name with a note of uncertainty. He couldn't smell anything wrong in the shop - nothing demonic, nor angelic (or at least, nothing from the wrong angel), and not even anything human. He'd half expected to catch a whiff of Shadwell, but not even that. 

He poked his head around a shelf, spotting the antiquated wall-mounted phone dangling off the receiver. With a root of worry worming its way into his gut, he picked it up, gently replacing it on the dock. "Angel? This isn't funny," he called out, his voice taking on an edge. He slowly scanned the room. "Are you here or not? I can still feel you..."

"I'm here, yes," Aziraphale's voice replied. Crowley jumped, standing to attention in surprise. He twisted, chasing off in the direction he'd heard the voice. 

"Angel?" he said, looking around the shop front. He must have missed him, hiding amongst the shelves. "Look, what's all this about? Is something wrong?"

"Not wrong, as such, dear, no," he replied slowly, in a voice that implied the contrary. Crowley rolled his eyes, walking down one aisle while running his fingertips idly over the shelves, letting his nails scrape lightly against the wood. "O - oh my!"

He stopped, turning in confusion. Aziraphale's voice had come from somewhere else this time. "What? What the Heaven are you doing over there now?" he complained. He dropped his arm back down by his side, storming off in a new direction. "Stay in the same bloody place, will you?"

"Well - well, you see, it's not quite as simple as - ah! Put that down!" he cried, voice cracking unnaturally.

Crowley's brow furrowed, and he carefully put the book down. He'd only picked it up so he wouldn't knock it over as he passed, but apparently he'd touched something especially valuable. "Right, right, it's down," he said in surrender, holding his hands up. "Can you come out here and let me talk to your face, angel?"

There was a pause. He sighed, wondering if he was ever going to give and answer, and leant against the counter. It was in the most secluded corner of the shop, where very few customers ever thought to look. 

"You see, I would come and talk to you, dear, but I'm... I'm afraid I'm not..." the angel stammered nervously. Crowley waited. "I suppose you could say I'm not decent."

"Not - not de - ? Like... naked, not decent?" he said, feeling an unbidden warmth in his cheeks at the very idea. He said it with a bit too much interest, but Aziraphale didn't seem to pick up on it. 

"Something of that ilk. I’m afraid I’ve had a bit of a wardrobe malfunction," he said self-consciously. Trying to occupy his hands, Crowley began to tap lightly on the counter with his nails, walking them over the wooden surface like a pianist at work. "A - aha! Oh, stop it, that tickles!"

Crowley took a sharp breath. Hot, unpleasant shame washed through him, and he stood straight again. "Angel... do you have company?" he said, feeling the proverbial knife slipping between his ribs and giving a hearty twist. "Am I interrupting something?"

Images flashed in his mind's eye, of Aziraphale stolen into a quiet corner with some lover he'd never met, desperately hushing them while he managed their unforeseen interruption. Crowley swallowed thickly. Jealousy was simmering, restless and constant, in his gut. He bit it back, steeling himself for Aziraphale's sheepish admissions of guilt and polite requests that he leave, thank you very much. 

"Crowley - " he began, voice shrill with surprise. He was embarrassed. 

"No, no, I'm sorry. I know when I'm not wanted, I'll just - I'll just let you get on with it," he said, shoving his hands in his pockets and making briskly for the door with his head down. He didn't want to catch a glimpse of anything by chance. He could feel his silly little hopes and dreams dragging behind him in tatters.

He found the front door locked, blocking his swift escape. With a frown, he threw more weight into it, trying to force it open. This door had never given him any trouble before, and frankly, this was just embarrassing. With a surge of spite, he hurled a thorn of demonic willpower against the door... and found something inside it, pushing back. 

He lurched back like he'd been stung. "Aziraphale?" he shrieked, falling back against a shelf, clinging tightly to it. Now he'd seen it once, he began to notice the energy humming in that, too. He jumped up again, spinning around in fruitless circles, suddenly realising that he was enveloped by a strikingly familiar angelic presence. "You possessed your bloody bookshop?"

A nervous chuckle echoed through the rooms without a source. "By mistake," he said. "I rather unfolded myself a little too far, and - and I got a little fright, must have lost my connection to my corporation."

"You idiot," he hissed. At least his worries about a rival-in-seduction had been swiftly put to rest.

"Yes, yes, I realise that," he said peevishly. If he had any, he'd be crossing his arms. "I just... was hoping you'd help me. Navigating the telephone like this is a job and a half, I'll tell you!"

He rolled his eyes. "Right. What do you need me to do?"

Aziraphale made a pleased sound. "It's a rather simple procedure. I will have to - ahem - reveal my true form to you, and you'll need to help me fold myself down until I can fit all snug as a bug back inside my body."

He stared blankly at the empty room, his sunglasses slipping down his nose in disbelief. "Your true form?" he said nervously. He could hardly unclench his jaw to speak. Bodily, physical, human nudity was one thing; angelic, celestial, true form nudity was on a whole other level. Angels didn't even walk around in Heaven in their real true forms, always moulding themselves a nice earthly facade to preserve their modesty. 

"Ah. I - I can quite understand why you wouldn't want to..." he said, sounding deflated. "I shouldn't have asked. I am terribly sorry, I'll - I'll have to just figure things out on my own."

"I didn't say that," Crowley said quickly. There was a beat of silence. He swallowed hard, unable to gauge his reaction. "S'just... never thought I'd get the chance."

"You mean... you've imagined it?"

Fuck.

"Er... well, imagined, s'a strong word," he said, trying desperately to back-pedal, rolling his shoulders and scrunching up his face in an expression that didn't even begin to approach nonchalant. "M - more like... more like _considered_. Thought about. Crossed my mind once or twice, that's all."

That was not all. The proper word would have been more like _fantasised_. Obsessed over. Daydreamed. Swooned. Drooled... etcetera.

The shop gave a thoughtful creak. “Well then,” Aziraphale said nervously. “Let’s be getting a wiggle on, shall we?”

Crowley rolled his eyes, but let Aziraphale’s voice guide him into the back room, where his body lay slumped in an armchair. His stomach turned slightly. It was a body he’d always recognised as his angel, all soft edges and skittish idiosyncrasies. It was empty. No thrum of life rushed through his veins, no warmth radiated from his skin, and his face lay slack and devoid of any expression. 

“Don’t like that,” he mumbled under his breath, reluctant to go near the vacant corporation. 

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “Look, let’s get this over with. Where are you? I promise I won’t stare too much.”

Aziraphale’s disembodied voice gave a nervous cough. The ticking of the clock seemed to grow faster for a moment, and Crowley knew he must be nervous. He didn’t push him. For all his impatience, he’d never had a problem waiting for Aziraphale to go at his own pace. He always had, after all. 

Eventually, the floorboards began to creak ominously, as if someone was taking slow, purposeful steps across them. A few books snapped open. Their pages rustled as they flipped, as if caught in a gale, and a tendril of glowing fog began to emerge from the pages. Crowley’s breath hitched when he saw it, and then again when more of it began to bubble up from in-between the floorboards, dripping from the ceiling, and tumbling down from the window panes like steam. He took a few tentative steps back, trying to lift his feet from the floor to give Aziraphale a clear run as the tendrils began to move and coalesce in front of him. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t help but brush up against them, feeling a shock of cold fire running up his body. He shuddered. 

The mass of fog, now in one swirling vortex, began to grow taller and more distinct. It lost its hazy outline, forming real, solid-looking feathers, eyes, fur, and skin, all backed by a magnificent halo. The demon in Crowley wanted to run screaming. The Crowley in Crowley wanted to drop to his knees then and there, and bask in the angelic light for as long as Aziraphale would let him. 

He did neither. “Aziraphale,” he rasped, thankful for his sunglasses. He was so bright, like the stars he’d helped build eons ago, only Aziraphale had no need for the endless backdrop of space to burn so fiercely. “You look...”

“I know, I know,” he said self-consciously, his voice now echoing and distant. He began to curl his wings around himself. “Not exactly the belle of the ball, am I?”

“Uh - eh - what?” Crowley said, only just processing what he’d said. He squinted at the form in front of him: at the curve of his wings, the expanse of his body speckled with eyes, the gentle rotations of his halo... he wasn’t conventionally attractive, not by human standards nor by angel, but Crowley had never taken such standards seriously. He knew beauty when he saw it, and in Aziraphale, oh, he saw it. “Are you mad?”

“Pardon?”

“I said, are you mad?” he repeated, coming closer. Aziraphale’s feathers ruffled in surprise, but he didn’t recoil from him. Crowley began to give broad, flapping gestures at his form. “Look at you! At the - at the glowing and the eyes and the - uh... this thing. Whatever that is.”

“That’s a scar, Crowley,” he said shortly.

He paled. “Scar,” he echoed, voice flat and stunned. His lip curled. “Who did that? I swear to whoever’s listening, angel, if you tell me who hurt you, I’ll take care of it.”

He gave an affectionate laugh, laced with old bitterness. “It’s a war wound, dear. It’s from the first Heavenly war,” he explained. His wings were beginning to relax down by his sides again, revealing more of his form to Crowley’s roaming eyes. “I was ambushed by a group of demons. I was able to escape, of course, but... not without the scar.”

Crowley felt a flush of shame. He liked to forget about the first war; he liked to forget that he would have attacked Aziraphale, once, if he’d met him on the battlefield. He began to shy away in shame, knowing what his own kind had done to his angel, that they had torn a piece out of his true form. It was vile. It was evil, even for Hell.

“I’m sorry, angel,” he said, looking at his feet. 

“Dear boy... you weren’t the one who did this,” he replied, and Crowley took a sharp breath when one soft, ethereal hand tilted his chin up to look at him again. “But I forgive you, if that’s what you want.”

He swallowed hard, and nodded. They were closer together now, Crowley’s material form almost touching Aziraphale’s celestial one. There was a temptation to just fall forward into him, to feel his essence curling around him, to reach out with his own and tangle them together like a mated pair... His eyes darted all over him, unsure which of Aziraphale’s gazes he ought to meet. 

_“Oh,”_ Aziraphale said, as if struck with a realisation. Crowley stiffened, worried he’d projected his thoughts. “I - I can feel it now...”

“What? What can you feel?” he said urgently, worried that at any moment, Aziraphale would draw his hand away again.

“Love. Your love, for me,” he replied softly, making the demon’s cold, black heart drop through the floor and back into the burning pits of sulphur. “Good Lord, how have I been so blind...? It’s so obvious now, without the barriers.”

He gave a harsh laugh, and wrenched himself away. “No need to rub it in,” he snapped, beginning to turn away from him, unable to look Aziraphale in the eyes while he cried. 

“Crowley? What are you talking about?” he said worriedly. He almost sounded... wounded.

“You just said, didn’t you? I’m in love with you,” he said, his throat suddenly tight. He pressed his eyes shut. “Stupid, _stupid_ demon, going and falling in love with his enemy... hah. I’ve got a knack for falling, haven’t I, angel?”

He could feel it again, the soft touch of Aziraphale’s hand on his shoulder. He shivered under it, but couldn’t pull away. He couldn’t bear to break the contact a second time. He needed it. “I don’t think you’re stupid,” Aziraphale said quietly. “Please look at me.” 

Hesitantly, his head began to turn. He only twisted it far enough to look over his shoulder, at the expressionless yet magnificent figure of his angel. “What?” 

Aziraphale leaned forward, until his glowing form nearly pressed against his back. “I love you too, you silly snake,” he whispered in his ear. 

Crowley’s brain stopped. Everything stopped. He was in full emergency shutdown, eyes wide, heart ricocheting back from Hell and his whole body alight with Aziraphale’s touch. “S - say that again, angel.” 

“I love you, Crowley,” he said sweetly, teasingly, in his ear. “Don’t you believe me?” 

“I... don’t think this is real,” he said dumbly. 

Aziraphale’s laugh, like the sweetest silver bells, filled the room. “Well, my dear demon, if you can’t feel my love... I suppose I shall just have to show you,” he said mischievously. 

“Wha - ngk!” Crowley said, feeling a sudden weight on his back that forced his knees to give out. Then, Aziraphale was there, everywhere, around him, pressed up against his body wherever he could find a place to rest his essence. “A - Angel...” 

“What is it?” he replied calmly, swirling in an indistinct mass of energy around Crowley’s chest, feeling his hammering heartbeat through his ribcage. 

“Your corporation - shouldn’t we - ?” 

“Bugger the corporation, Crowley,” he replied firmly. The demon blinked in surprise. “In fact, now you mention it, I think you could perhaps do with taking yours off...” 

“And you say I go too fast,” he snorted. He did it anyway, though. 


End file.
